A Loaf of Bread

posted by Helen

Yesterday I baked bread. It isn't hard to do. It mostly consists of waiting around between a series of small tasks. Since I work from home, it's really a matter of setting a kitchen timer and periodically nipping over from the office to the house to attend to the next stage.

I have temporary custody of my mom's KitchenAid mixer and it makes the whole process incredibly easy -- that and a terrific recipe for whole-wheat bread from the March/April issue of Cook's Illustrated magazine. (Thanks to my brother-in-law for the gift subscription to CI a couple of years ago. It has changed my life.) I used to have a bread machine, which made things even easier, but it didn't do as good a job of kneading as the KitchenAid.

Funny, although I love baking bread and eating freshly baked homemade bread, I rarely buy or eat it from a store. My ultimate goal with taking up bread baking again now is to re-create the fabulous "Zuricher Loaf" you can get in any Swiss-German bakery. My dad was on a similar quest when I was a kid and frequently served up his latest efforts for Sunday breakfast. He had a knack for breadmaking and the taste of a warm slice of his bread with butter melting on top is a favorite childhood memory. He didn't write down his recipes, unfortunately.

I've searched my collection of Swiss cookbooks and the internet for the exact combination of ingredients in a Zuricher Loaf, but to no avail. My next step is to work my way, one-by-one, through the recipes in a book I have on European breads. It's a tough job but someone's got to do it.

Spring comes

posted by Helen

Spring comes
The grass grows
By itself

When I was growing up, one of my mom's friends made little notes that were posted inside cabinet doors in our kitchen. The Zen-like poem above was one of them. It was accompanied by a little watercolor sketch of a tuft of grass.

Another of the notes read: "Stop worrying! It's bad for your blood pressure!" which is just another way of saying the same thing. I don't remember when these notes first appeared, but they became part of the kitchen landscape, along with the yellowing recipe cards tacked up inside the cabinet door where the baking supplies were stored.

Today spring comes. Nothing we did brought it; nothing we could do could stop it. Outside the scene is much the same as yesterday -- a cold wind blowing a few dried leaves across the yard. But I know the warmth is coming.

Luck o' the Swiss

posted by Helen

It's St. Patrick's Day. None of us here are Irish -- as far we know, although Cammy's full name is Cammy O'Rose so that might mean something.

Oddly enough for me, I am wearing green today. It wasn't intentional. I always resented the pressure to wear green on March 17th when I was in school. I wonder if my high school had an unusually high percentage of Irish descendants.

Dave is not letting his lack of Irish ancestry get in the way of a good celebration and will be playing with the Gully Boys at Firestone's this evening. They'll be playing things like "Danny Boy" and "Cockles and Mussels," as well as Grateful Dead songs and some originals.

Rainy days and Mondays

posted by Helen

It's Monday and it's raining. We've been watching water pouring off the hill behind the new office all day. A lot of it is ending up in the driveway so we still have some work to do out there. At least it isn't going into the basement of the house any more.

This weekend my sister and I went to the New England Flower Show in Boston. This used to be an annual trip for us but I haven't been for some years now. It was great. We were able to go during early member hours so it was relatively uncrowded. We were just about finishing up when the doors opened to the general public.

The trip did make me itch to get out in the garden. It's too early to plant, of course, but when it starts to dry out a little, I will get out there and start clearing up some of last year's debris. I usually leave some dried stems and seed heads for "winter interest" but by this time of year it's all a soggy mess.

I could get the grow lamp out of the basement and start some seeds. It may yet be too early for that even though our front yard is a whole zone warmer than the rest of the area. They'll get too leggy before I can get them in the ground.

I have to cut this aimless rambling short. Dave just reminded we have a meeting to attend in Woodstock, and then dinner out with friends.

On the Radio

posted by Helen

One of Dave's songs will be getting air time on 99 Rock out of Lebanon, NH.

The song is "Thinkin' Bout U" and it is being aired on this week's radio show "Water, Oil, Mars" from MoJo Live Radio out of Franconia, New Hampshire.

MoJo Live Radio does a great job of highlighting new music from independent artists from around the world. It is recorded and downloaded to their internet site where it is picked up by independent rock stations all over the world. Check out the radio list on their web site for a station near you.

The Day Is Done

posted by Helen

Another week is winding down here at the world headquarters of Clark Communications Group. I hope the tongue-in-cheek flavor of that statement is coming through clearly.

It's been a tough week. The young daughter of one of our employees is very ill and we have been heartsick about it. It's been hard to focus on work, but I try to remember that the best way we can help our employee right now is to keep our business going so that we can continue to pay his salary for the duration.

Anyway, I'm feeling pretty low and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's maudlin poem "The Day Is Done" seems an appropriate antidote ...

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.